


As a fever, longing still

by MercuryGray



Category: Mercy Street (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, Nurses & Nursing, Sick Character, Whump, typhoid - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-27
Updated: 2017-03-27
Packaged: 2018-10-11 11:44:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10464144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MercuryGray/pseuds/MercuryGray
Summary: An alternate timeline to season 2 - the spectre of typhoid has passed Mary Phinney by and landed on someone else. What will Mansion House do with a new head of hospital, the head nurse and the chief surgeon barely on speaking terms -- and the chaplain abed?





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [RedFlagsAndDiamonds](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RedFlagsAndDiamonds/gifts).



> My love is as a fever, longing still
> 
> For that which longer nurseth the disease,
> 
> Feeding on that which doth preserve the ill,
> 
> Th’ uncertain sickly appetite to please.
> 
> -William Shakespeare, Sonnet 147

 

Mary couldn’t quite place what seemed wrong in the tableau before her -  the soldier and the chaplain, heads inclined in prayer, hands clasped together so that their mutual supplications to the Almighty might be better heard. A common enough occurrence here in the hospital. But still something seemed off to her, some small, imperceivable thing as yet escaping her notice. 

 

Was she imagining things, or did he seem paler than usual? Did he sway as he stood, or was it a trick of the light - a trick that at the same turn made him paler than usual? He seemed a little dazed, pausing before resuming his walk - and he was wearing the first few buttons of his coat open, unusual for him, especially while he was on his own rounds of the wards. It was his uniform, he’d explained to Mary once, just as surely as the white coat of the operating theatre was Jed and Hale’s. “They expect it - and find comfort from it,” he’d said, and Mary had nodded, agreeing that there was reassurance to be had from the familiar. (How many Catholic boys, too long away from their churches and schoolrooms, had wept seeing Sister Isabella and her sisters in their habits, too glad for words seeing someone whose care and devotion was promised and guaranteed as a holy sacrifice?) 

 

He paused a moment, coughing violently while he withdrew a handkerchief from his pocket. Mary’s eyes narrowed. “He’s not been himself this morning, if that’s what you’re wondering,” Brannan remarked from behind her, following the head nurse’s gaze to where it rested on Hopkins. “Healthy as an ox, that one. In the year he’s been here I’ve never seen him so much as sneeze, and then suddenly his kerchief is as constant as his bible.”

 

“This is a new development?” Mary asked, her eyes still lingering on Hopkins.

 

“Oh, the past week or so. He asked for a syrup for the cough, which I gave him - though it doesn’t look to have done anything. I’d no idea it was as far gone as that,” Brannan observed. Mary nodded, resolved on her action as she crossed the room, catching Hopkins’ elbow as he finished his coughing spell.

 

“Hadn’t you better be in bed with that, Reverend?” she asked kindly. Hopkins looked up at her with slow, unfocused eyes, his smile almost immediately contrite.

 

“My apologies, Miss Phinney, it’s - “ he broke off again in another fit, the sound deep and lingering, “- a touch of cold.”

 

But the heat from his body, even through the wool of his jacket, said otherwise - and now that she approached, she could see the sheen of sweat on his skin, the rapid beating of his pulse. “Perhaps you misunderstood me,” Mary said kindly, steering him in the direction of the stairs. “It was not a suggestion, but an order, and if you require more encouragement, I shall find Doctor Foster to berate you to it. This is far from a touch of cold, and you ought to be in bed - if only,” she began over the sound of his protests, “so you do not get anyone else sick - and so that Matron and I am not left carrying you to bed if you should faint.” She tried to smile, looking up at him to remind him he had a good several inches on her and at least a foot on Matron Brannan. “You will admit that much is a problem, I hope.” 

 

Hopkins seemed to take her meaning, and nodded, walking slowly and deliberately off to the stairs. Mary followed him, watching him climb with measured, slow steps. “I’ll check on him later,” she said aloud to the Matron. “And make sure he drinks something. I don’t like his color.”

 

“I’ll bring something up to him,” Brannan said. “You’d best be getting off to your rounds, or the Major may hear.” She gave a dark side glance in the direction of Anne’s ward, and Mary nodded, setting briskly off to her regular duties.

 

McBurney had interviewed her earlier that morning. She’d indicated she prefered to stand, as there was a boy coming out of surgery and she was to be called for when he’d returned from theatre. The Major had seemed taken aback by this, but had acquiesced, settling into his chair and reading aloud Summers’ assessment of her - her lack of formal training made up for by a ‘commanding presence, calm and motherly instinct, and a Yankee fortitude that betrays her New England upbringing.’ She had denied nothing, admitted her shortcomings in a way that suggested she knew of them and intended to fix them, and stood her ground. McBurney had found nothing with which to argue and, after several minutes, his attention drawn by the arrangement of the inkwell and paperweight on his desk, began a discussion of new initiatives, his aims in coming to the hospital and his desire for order.  _ Is that what it’s called,  _ Mary had wondered privately, watching him align his blotter so that it was precisely the same distance from the top and bottom of his desk.

 

“You know I offered Miss Hastings your job,” he had said, his eyes level with his desk as he considered the placement of his ceramic phrenology model and its angle with the inkwell. “She did not refuse.”

 

“If you are looking to disquiet me, sir, I’m afraid I must disappoint - Miss Hastings has wanted the position since I first arrived. Frankly, it would be more surprising to me if she’d declined.”

 

“And this does not upset you?”

 

“Not a bit,” Mary said, truthful.

 

“Why?” McBurney looked up and then, she felt, she had his full attention. “Her credentials are impressive - her qualifications equal yours, if not rival to them.”

 

“And still I was chosen for and have maintained the post, sir, which means there must be some other qualification I have that she does not. I have Miss Dix’s approval and serve under her auspices; I trust that will serve you as well as it served your predecessor,” Mary said fairly. McBurney considered this.

 

“I shall expect daily reports,” he said finally. “Nutrition, patient progress, incomings, outgoings. Details, Miss Phinney. Details.” She nodded, considering herself dismissed, and turned into the hallway, wondering, as she left, about the nature of McBurney’s injury, his abrasive personality, and what had really been said that morning to Miss Hastings.

 

“So you’ve been to see McBurney,” Jed assessed, catching her as she exited the office. “How - how did you find him?”

 

It was now several days since they’d spoken, in haste and anger, about the matter of Miss Charlotte’s purpose and Jed’s blindness to the necessity of it, and he had avoided her since then. Was this the start of an apology, an opening he could exploit to talk to her again? Her own views had not changed. “I have,” she said. “He seems...focused.”  _ And by turns distracted by it,  _ she wanted to add, but she could not fight a war on two fronts, against Jed and against McBurney both. Jed, by his expression, did not quite agree with this answer, but nor did he dispute it - he nodded, sensing her unwillingness to talk more, and let her move on.

 

Could he fault her for speaking her mind? She observed as she was given, and what she had been given was a man who, for all his talk of blood being one color when it came to gray uniforms or blue seemed stubbornly blind when it came to one’s skin being of a different hue. He had grown up among it - she knew that - and she knew also that he had chosen to leave, though the desire to remove himself from that sphere of prejudice had not been the cause of that removal. But why - why! - should he persist in it? In Paris and Berlin, where he had studied, surely they were not so backwards there! She loved him, when it came to it - but she could not in good conscience condone such things - and that meant he must be a stranger to her, a colleague to be worked with, not a friend with whom to socialize and find consolation in.

 

She pulled herself away from thoughts of Jed and went to go observe the wards, taking the daily reports McBurney had suggested and making notes for the next nurses’ meeting. She ended at Emma’s ward, hoping to catch a little more time with the newest member of the staff. It was now nearly dinner time, and an orderly was helping her dispense dinner, including several special diet items she must have cooked herself in Mary’s little upstairs kitchen. Mary beamed, pleased that this small, extra step had been taken - one less thing for the Major to dismiss her on.

 

Of all the nurses McBurney seemed least inclined to like Emma, citing Miss Dix’s own admonitions on how nurses ought to be matronly and fully forty before being considered for posts. She would have to work hard indeed if she wanted to stay in the Major’s good graces and her present position - and Mary would move heaven and earth to see that she did.

 

Emma’s skills had grown considerably since she’d first applied herself to the Confederate patients at Mansion House - she observed everything and could often be found jotting notes on a little notebook secreted away in a pocket. There was nothing Mary could do about her age, but Emma took pains to dress plainly and moderate her voice, and the way she was dressing her hair now added a few years to her face. And, Mary thought quietly, Miss Dix could say what she liked about motherly care being the best medicine, but Mary might tell her a thing or two about what a young, pretty face might inspire in the way of motivations to get well.  “Now, Corporal, what would your Miss Harriet say?” she had heard Emma telling one young patient one day. “I would hate to have to write home and tell her you’ve thrown her over, after she’s sent you all those lovely letters.” 

 

Of course there was more than one way to step around a potential admirer’s attentions - a reminder of correct behavior, a quick and firm refusal - or, if he was being particularly adamant, a sly but sure remark that her own young man would not appreciate any attentions paid to her. Mary wasn’t all that certain that Emma had a young man to speak of, but it was this excuse that was getting trotted out more than ever, and it made Mary wonder what the identity of this young man might be. She’d never heard Emma speak of such a gentleman - but she had noticed, one day, as the excuse was deployed, that Emma’s eyes had risen up to the Chaplain, across the room, and rested there a while afterwards, as if she were contemplating the possibility.

 

And how often had Mary observed Hopkins making the same long study of Emma? That half of the story, at least, she’d known about for a good deal longer -- at the ball the Greens had given he’d lingered at the edge of the party, dropping an eager hint that Emma had promised him a dance, his eyes sparkling at the prospect as he watched her twirl around the room on an officer’s arm. She didn’t know if he’d ever gotten it, as the sad business with Aurelia had pulled her away from the festivities earlier than expected. If he hadn’t, the loss hadn’t dampened his hopes - he still rushed to her assistance when he was needed and observed her quietly when he could not help.

Perhaps, when he was feeling better, she might make the suggestion that he offer to take Miss Green on a walk some Sunday afternoon.

 

“Something the matter, Miss Phinney?” Emma asked, seeing the head nurse and joining her in the doorway. 

 

“Nothing at all,” Mary said with a smile. “I just wanted to see how you were getting on.” Emma’s eyes narrowed a little, and Mary realized it might be better to tell her the truth. “I know there’s been some question of your position here, Miss Green; I know, also, that it’s your wish to stay, and so I wrote to the medical department, asking them to confirm your appointment - and they have.” Emma’s beaming smile could have warmed a winter night. “But our...new chief may not be so accepting of such things as Doctor Summers was,” Mary warned. 

 

“You went to see him this morning?” the younger woman asked, her voice not a little anxious. “Miss Hastings said he was the picture of a gentleman, but she...has that way of saying it that makes you doubt she means it.”

 

Mary nodded, knowing exactly to what Emma was referring. “No doubt she has some design on him - as she usually does. He was most collegial with me. But he let me know that his confidence must be earned - not recommended. And he made it known that he has doubts about...certain members of my staff.”

 

“Meaning me.” Emma’s face fell a little.

 

“He will not take a single nurse from this hospital while I am still in charge,” Mary assured her. “But we must not give him cause to do anything. Do we understand each other?” 

 

She nodded, resolute. “Of course, Miss Phinney. Shall I - continue seeing to dinner?”

 

“That would be - “ But Mary never got to finish her thought, for at that moment Matron Brannan came barreling down the stairs at full speed, looking here, there, and everywhere.

 

“Miss Phinney! You’d better come,” she begged, her voice upset and urgent. “It’s the Chaplain, he’s --” Mary did not give her time to finish, picking up her skirts and taking the stairs in double-quick time, Brannan and Emma following close after. “I’d gone up to bring him water and when he didn’t answer - he’s in a right state, Miss Phinney…”

 

Up, up, up, to the top-most floor, stooping at the low ceiling of the attics where the hotel’s staff had once slept, and which now housed most of the orderlies and the small room that the chaplain called home. Hale and Foster had roomier apartments below, but Hopkins’ room was, as its owner, a humble thing, furnished sparsely. The man himself lay sprawled on the bed, still fully dressed but arms slack as if in faint, discomposed and delirious, rolling fitfully in his sleep. Obviously he’d laid down intending to take a little rest and then return to his rounds, against Mary’s instructions, and been overcome - laying a hand to his forehead, Mary found his skin like fire. 

 

“Send for Doctor Foster and tell him to come quickly - tell him the Chaplain has a fever I’d like him to see.” Brannan nodded and sped away, leaving Emma lingering on the landing, unsure of what she might do. “Miss Green, with me - we need to bring his temperature down. Get him out of his clothes.” Emma balked for a moment, but Hopkins’ fluttering eyes, and the disembodied murmur of pain that came suddenly from his throat brought her back to reality, her hands quickly fumbling with his collar, bodily lifting him up so she and Mary could shimmy his coat and waistcoat off, his head lolling against their shoulders as they unbuttoned his shirt and laid him back down on the bed, unlacing shoes and stripping away his stockings and trousers.  _ Another patient, he’s just another patient.  _ She could practically hear the younger woman reciting the mantra under her breath.  _ So much for not giving cause for removal,  _ she thought to herself.  _ We must only hope her mother never catches word of this. _

 

“What’s the matter here?” Foster asked, obviously having ascertained that Brannan’s need for quickness was a mortal one and scaled the stairs in record time.

 

“I sent him to bed earlier to rest, but now he’s near delirious now and his temperature - “ Mary took the offered thermometer and rested it against his skin, counting under her breath before removing it. Foster took it from her, read the mercury.

 

“One hundred and five - We need to cool him,  _ now _ . A water bath would be best, but I don’t like our chances on those stairs - or moving him. Miss Green, can some ice be located?” The younger woman made some comment in the affirmation about her mother and an icehouse. “We shall need a block - twenty-five pounds or thirty - and an ice pick.” She flew down the stairs without the least hesitation, running for home and the promised ice. “Matron, I need you to find me a rubber groundsheet and some clean linen, and a bucket for the ice. We’ll wrap him in it.” Brannan nodded and quickly followed in Miss Green’s wake, moving slower but with no less purpose as Miss Phinney remained and Foster continued checking his patient, unbuttoning the wrists of his shirt and peeling back the neck to feel for his pulse and listen to his heart. The chaplain’s eyes fluttered, but he did not seem to have the strength to open them fully. 

 

Foster paused, and Mary’s eye was drawn to a curious red rash creeping up his chest.  “What is it?” 

 

“Never you mind,” he said, pulling the shirt back over the chaplain’s chest. “Hopkins, man, you stay with me! You owe me a chess game, do you hear?” Hopkins’ eyes fluttered again, and Foster seemed to take that as a good sign.

 

They bathed his forehead, neck and wrists until Brannan returned with the sheet, turning him first one way and then the other until he was resting atop it, waiting, fervently, until Emma returned with one of her house-servants in tow, lugging an impossibly large piece of ice wrapped in burlap, the ice pick in her own white-knuckled hand. Foster removed himself from the bedside and set to chipping at the block, hastily shoving chips into the bucket at his feet so that they could shake them out into the groundsheet, wrapping the chaplain’s long limbs in the sheet, slowly filling it with ice that melted to touch his skin.

 

“Miss Green, find a new nightshirt; he’ll need to be dried when we’re done, we don’t need him taking pneumonia, too,” Foster ordered. Emma left the bedside, kneeling at the foot of the bed to rifle through the Chaplain’s chest, laying aside a neat stack of books so she could get to the clothes beneath, finally producing a new shirt to replace the old.

 

“Where is that man? Doctor Foster! Doctor Foster? I trust there is an explanation for this unprofessional pandemonium,” McBurney announced sanctimoniously, coming through the door with Miss Hastings in his wake. “I will tell you now that I will not have this kind of anarchy in my hospital - nurses shouting, everyone running up and down the stairs like a herd of buffalo, a random ragamuffin coming through with a block of - ice…” he trailed off, taking in the situation, Foster wildly attacking the ice while Mary and the Matron bathed Hopkins’ fevered brow, Emma crouched at the chest, shirt in hand. “What is this?” 

 

“He has a fever; we are cooling it,” Foster said tersely, bringing the next bucket of ice chips and laying it along the sheet.

 

“This is most irregular, Doctor, and I cannot sanction -”

 

“Will you not let me do _my_ _job, sir!”_ Foster shouted his response, a question that did not come out with an ounce of inquiry in it, shoving past McBurney to return to the ice, The head of the hospital stared, completely shocked by the insubordination, too amazed to even respond. “There now, Henry, that should feel much better - stay with me, man, stay with me -”

 

The Chaplain’s eyes fluttered again, but he turned towards the sound, at least, and murmured some reply, the minutes passing all too slowly as his body slowly stopped convulsing and his breathing became more normal. “Right, now, we shall roll him this way - yes, just like that, and if you could sweep the ice into the bucket, Miss Green, thank you -- and the toweling, Matron - gently now, gently - just pull that shirt over his head, it isn’t anything anyone in this room hasn’t seen -- ”

 

They replaced the sheets beneath him, then stripped his damp shirt away and toweled him dry, Mary, Hopkins and the Matron forming an unlikely living painting, the Madonna and the Magdelene holding the crucified Christ.

 

“Is that a rash?” McBurney said, stepping forward now that the crisis, and his initial shock, seemed to have passed, and the chaplain’s chest was bare to the world while Mary and the Matron exchanged his sodden shirt for a clean and dry one.

 

“Just a bit of heat rash - I’m sure - “

 

But McBurney was like a dog after a bone - he stepped forward, positively ripping down the collar of Hopkin’s shirt. “Rose spots,” he pronounced. “Rhonchi, delirium - this man has  _ typhoid,  _ Doctor Foster.”

 

“I’ve seen it in the Crimea, sir,” Anne said, happiest to step in when her especial knowledge could be most the most hurtful. “A classic case.”

 

“He will need to be isolated, Doctor - or would you like to be in the middle of an epidemic?” McBurney glared at Foster, the two men’s gazes likely to start fires, so close were both their tempers to combustion. “Goodness knows how many patients he’s already been exposed to -”

 

“I’ll do it,” Mary said quickly.

 

“Nonsense, Miss Phinney, you are needed a great deal more elsewhere.”

 

“Then I’ll do it,” Emma volunteered. McBurney and the others stared. “My duties are not Miss Phinney’s - I can take his care.”

 

“Miss Green, you’ve no - “

 

“Experience?” Emma’s voice cracked a little, the eyes of the room on her. “I know that Prince Albert died of typhoid, last winter, and that his doctors should have treated him with cold water baths, as we’ve done, and quinine, to keep his fever low. I know he’ll need constant fluids and a special diet, as diarrhea and loose stools are a common symptom. Oatmeal gruels and beef tea to start.” Emma’s eyes stayed fixed on McBurney’s, a special storm of her own brewing, her jaw tense and her shoulders tight, ready to stand her ground. “Otherwise rice or toast in milk, or something else warm. His fever shall need to be monitored, as it’ll come and go...for as much as a month. And Doctor Budd noted that the disposal of the patient’s... excreta should be handled with the utmost care, so as not to provoke further infection.” And, speech delivered, she stepped back a little, waiting for the verdict. There was no sound - even Miss Hastings had found nothing missing. 

 

“...You’ve read Doctor Budd?” McBurney seemed not to believe what he was hearing.

 

“Doctor Foster lent it to me some weeks ago when we had dysentery on the wards.”

 

Mary could not help but look at Jed; he seemed as surprised as she to hear such an answer from Emma’s lips. Obviously he’d meant the loan as a joke, but she had not taken it as such.

 

“Well.” The Major, recovering from the second shock of his day, took a breath and composed himself. “I leave him in your...capable hands, Miss Green. Matron - see that this - “ he gestured to the melting icewater and the groundsheet - “mess...is attended to.”

 

He gave a final glance at the Chaplain and the various members of his staff clumped rebelliously around him, each one of them staring at him with eyes that verged from curious to frankly mutinous, thought better of saying anything else, and departed, taking Nurse Hastings with him. They heard her on the stairs, trying to placate him. As soon as the voices died away the room relaxed.

 

“You spoke well,” Jed said to Emma, kneeling down to help her pick up the last bits of ice. “I don’t think anyone could have spoken better. I’ll make sure we’ve quinine enough for him, and show you how to mix it, if -”

 

“Miss Phinney’s showed me how,” Emma said with a slim smile. 

 

“He’s in very good hands, then,” Jed said. “Ah -  _ Ecce homo!”  _ Hopkins seemed to be stirring from sleep, brought around by the shouting, the icewater, or the sudden drop in his body’s temperature. “You had us worried there a while, friend,” he said conversationally, moving to take Henry’s wrist and take his pulse.

 

“I only meant to rest for a little,” Henry said, provoking all in the room to subdued smiles, struggling to sit up. “I’m sorry if…” He made as if to rise further from bed, but Mary and Brannan held him down. 

 

“You’ll stay abed if you know what’s good for you,” Matron Brannan suggested, every inch the resident matriarch. “Or I’ll know why.”

 

“We think you’ve contracted typhoid, Henry,” Jed informed the chaplain. “It’s lucky Mary sent you to bed when she did and Matron thought to check on you. Your fever was dangerously high - another hour like that might have killed you. Thankfully, that is not the case, and Saint Peter has been spared your company for a little while longer.”

 

“Typhoid.” Hopkins needed no further explanation; he’d been with the army long enough to know its plagues and pestilences.

 

Jed nodded. “You’re to be kept in isolation, here - and Miss Green has offered to tend you. I can’t say it will be easy - you’ll have the fever a few weeks more, and joint pain besides. You won’t...keep anything in, either; your bedpan will be a constant companion. But we can promise you a free run of the library, uninterrupted hours for writing sermons and as much sleep as you can stand. And if you follow your nurse’s instructions, drink and eat what you’re bid...there’s a good chance you’ll live.”

 

Hopkins nodded, his gaze a little unfocused, tired after his body’s long trip through hell and back that afternoon. “We’ll leave you to rest, I think,” Jed finished with a smile. 

 

“I’ll just see to this,” the Matron said, sweeping up the bucket and the sheets while Mary helped Emma set the room to rights, the chaplain watching feebly from his bed as the two women tidied his bachelor quarters, finding a new home for the books and replacing his clothing in his chest, moving the chair from his desk to the bedside for the first watch.

 

“I’ll be back with the quinine,” Mary said, laying a hand on Emma’s wrist to reassure her. She nodded, watching the head nurse leave before beginning her own small rearrangement of his bedside table, taking stock of the bible, his bookmarks, his glasses, the matches for the lamp and a dozen other bits and bobs that she would have to find a new home for when she made room for the quinine, thermometer and drinking glass. She was aware his eyes were following her, and tried not to meet his gaze, busying herself with the small domestic business of tidying the table, moving back and forth between the bed and the desk with forced industry until he reached out and caught her hand.

 

“Miss Green, please.” She stopped, looked up at him. “You don’t have to do this, you know. It’s not...it’s not a pretty thing, typhoid.”

 

“Well, we can’t very well leave you to rot,” she said sternly. “And besides, you’ve done the same for others, and more. This hospital owes you a great deal, Chaplain - as do I.” She gave a brief smile, responding to his look of confusion. “There are a dozen boys or more who might have died alone without out, two dozen who might not have  _ lived _ if it were for your care - and...If it weren’t for you and your advice, my father might still be in prison, or worse. So I  _ do _ have to do this, Mr. Hopkins, for myself and my family as much as any other. So we’ll say no more about it, and you’ll keep to your bed and do as I say, or I shall have to go fetch my mother to make you. Now. Should you like me to read while you go to sleep?” Emma asked, settling into the chair once the room was righted and readied for its stint as a sickroom. Her hand moved to the Bible at his bedside, but Henry, glancing at it, shook his head.

 

“Not...not that. Not just yet. Miss Phinney lent me - it should be at the foot of the bed - just near the chest - Mr. Emerson’s essays.”

 

Emma went and looked, retrieving the book from where she’d placed it on his desk, atop the notes for next week’s sermon, now sadly an afterthought. “Nature: Addresses and Lectures,” she read from the title page.

 

Henry nodded. “I’ve not made time to read it, though it seems now…I could do worse than a little philosophy.”

 

She smiled, laid a hand on his own, above the coverlet. “Then we’ll read it together.”

 

“And see who it puts to sleep first,” Henry said with a smile that Emma could not help but echo as she turned the pages and adjusted the light on the lamp, leaning forward so that she might begin to read, her voice measured and slow, watching her patient over the top of the book as she read.

  
“Our age is retrospective. It builds the sepulchres of the fathers. It writes biographies, histories, and criticism. The foregoing generations beheld God and nature face to face; we, through their eyes. Why should not we also enjoy an original relation to the universe? Why should not we have a poetry and philosophy of insight and not of tradition, and a religion by revelation to us…”

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to RedFlagsandDiamonds for the intriguing prompt!
> 
> The book referenced by Emma is "On the Propagation of Typhoid Fever" by William Budd, published in London in 1861, which can be read in its entirety on Google Books - it was a synthesis of several earlier papers of Budd's hypothesizing that all typhoid outbreaks, far from being randomly occurring, could in fact be traced specifically to the places where human excrement was disposed of. Though germs were not specifically being spoken of, you can see the idea of germ theory starting to take root. Prince Albert was thought to have died of typhoid, but modern diagnoses tend more towards a longer, chronic condition; however, I thought his stature and the public impact of his death would have made him a conversation piece.
> 
> I have tried, to the best of my knowledge and limited resources, to make the treatment she prescribes accurate and helpful; several cookbooks and Miss Nightingale's Notes on Nursing provided the sickroom menu. Everything I read said that the greatest danger was dehydration, high fever, and gastrointestinal distress. The stage-business of Henry's fever treatment was borrowed from PBS's Cranford; I hope Mrs. Gaskell will forgive me.
> 
> The light reading Emma begins with Henry at the end of the chapter, Emerson's Nature: Addresses and Lectures, was published in 1849 and can also be read in its entirety online. (Confession: I have yet to read it.)
> 
> I'm of two minds continuing this; the lingering nature of typhoid, and Emerson's essays, pose a long problem indeed.


End file.
